It’s Friday, so here’s some silly fanfic that everyone (even fanboys!) can enjoy

1809 hours: Mon Mothma told me to “stop moping about Bespin” and to get on with my life. After all, she added, much as I’d lost my hand and all, she was sick of “removing Wes Janson from my quarters at ungodly hours of the night, demanding a ‘goodnight kiss’,” and “it’s your responsibility as commander to keep your squad in check regardless of how you’re feeling” and “civic duty” and “orange flightsuits” and blah blah blah. Huh. See if I blow up a Death Star for her again.